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NeSmith: Sometimes, the demons win

If we dig in our mental closets, most of us are likely to find a few demons hiding. There wasn’t enough room for one more hanger or shoebox in Tony’s packed closet. The demons didn’t just start chasing him three years ago, when his battered pickup rattled up the farm’s gravel driveway.

Maybe it was the horror of watching fire destroy his family’s home.

Maybe it was the wreck that robbed an eye and hearing in one ear.

Maybe it was the divorce, and the separation from his young daughter.

Maybe it was the lack of work as a stonemason.

Maybe it was that his money had evaporated.

Maybe it was the death of his estranged girlfriend.

Maybe it was depression, drug and alcohol abuse, or the incessant headaches.

Maybe it was the trips in and out of rehab.

Maybe it was the disappointment, continually testing the trust of his friends.

Whatever the reason, Tony was tormented. That was obvious. I could sense the scars — inside and out. A mutual friend was his sponsor in Alcoholics Anonymous, and he introduced me to Tony, hoping that I could help.

I know nothing about drug and alcohol counseling, but I had something Tony needed — a roof over his head. He was homeless, bouncing from one place to another. Our friend knew I had a vacant mobile home on the backside of the farm, down by the lake. The 1960s vintage single-wide was just collecting dust, but it quickly became Tony’s castle. He insisted on paying rent, so I let him set the figure: $150 per month. I offered him a chance to do odd jobs, so that he’d never have to pay out-of-pocket.

Tony was a self-professed clean freak. His life was in shambles, but his stuff had to be in order and spit-shined. Soon, a second inhabitant arrived. His name was Zeus, a miniature Doberman Pinscher. Tony scavenged in my scrap yard to build his puppy a play yard. The two were inseparable.

And when Tony saw me, he wanted to talk. Often, we’d work together. A farm’s chore list never ends. Tony would talk, and I’d listen. He craved attention and praise, but he was constantly apologizing. At times, we’d both get frustrated.

Tony’s emotions and behavior were — at best — a roller-coaster ride. A short while ago, he jumped the track. He sought professional help. They took him to a hospital specializing in mental health. Strangers and strange places made Tony more nervous than his normal jitters. He hitched a ride home from Atlanta.

Neither his AA friend nor I wanted to give up on Tony. We sat him down and agreed on three rules. He signed his name, promising honesty at all times, to remain sober and drug-free, attending six AA meetings a week, and completing his chore list to cover his modest rent and utility bill

Uplifted, Tony started off — again — strong. Everyone seemed happier. Even Zeus had extra zip in his race around the farm. And then, while visiting a friend, Tony slipped and fell, banging his head and ribs. On the way back from the emergency room, he stopped to report: “Nothing broken. I’m not filling this prescription for pain pills.”

But I think he did.

That was the last time I saw him.

The sheriff called three days later.

Kids found Tony floating in the lake.

Now, Zeus is wondering, “Where’s my buddy?”

And I’m wondering, “What more could we have done to help Tony tame those demons?”

• Dink NeSmith is president of Community Newspapers Inc. and represents the 10th Congressional District on the University System of Georgia Board of Regents. Email dnesmith@cninewspapers.com.